Page 3 of Jameson’s Salvation

Jameson couldn’t help it, he was enjoying the woman’s banter, so he continued to engage even though he knew he should just tell her Nixon wasn’t there and send her on her way.

“I didn’t mention anything. You’re the one that seems fascinated with the man’s balls.”

“Ew. That’s gross.” Kennedy’s face scrunched in disgust and Jameson chuckled.

Needing to steer the conversation back to something more appropriate—and to a topic that didn’t make Kennedy’s sharp wit come out along with cute gestures that made Jameson want to laugh—he moved along.

“What’s he want?”

“My land,” she answered.

“Your land?”

“Yep. He bought the farm behind me when Mr. Nickels passed away. His widow didn’t want to sell, but after a year of not being able to find someone to rent the property to who could till it, she had to. Her only son lives in New Jersey and he never had any interest in farming. The land taxes were coming up and she couldn’t afford to pay them from her social security. Not to mention, you can’t leave nearly four-hundred and fifty acres unattended. She was growing a weed crop and the farmer next to her was pissed.”

None of that meant anything to Jameson. He had no clue why a neighboring farmer wouldn’t be pleased the fields next to him were growing weeds and didn’t understand what any of it had to do with Kennedy’s land.

Luckily, she continued. “Now that he owns the land behind me, he wants mine, too. I only have fifty acres but I have the most street access.”

“I take it you don’t want to sell. Even at fair market value.”

“Over my dead body. That land is mine. I’ve worked hard for it. And I’m not selling to anybody, but most especially not to that snake so he can turn it into a development.”

Jameson was taken aback at the vehemence in Kennedy’s voice. Gone was the sweet lyrical tone. And in its place was steely determination. He was impressed and more than a little curious about the feisty woman who’d fight to keep her patch of land.

It was out of inquisitiveness he asked his next question, an offer he hoped didn’t bite him in the ass. But he’d decided the moment she’d stepped out of her truck and smiled at him he was going to ask it. Even before she’d told her tale of woe.

Now he had an excuse for his odd behavior, and the truth was, Reggie Coleman sounded like a man who needed to be taught a few lessons. Luckily for Kennedy, Jameson was a good teacher.

“Wanna go on up to the house?”

“The house?”

“The house, Kennedy. The place you passed on your way up here.”

“Smartass,” she said with a smile. “You think Nixon can help me?”

There was that jealousy again. Jameson tamped it down and answered.

“Yeah, I think we can help you.”

Jameson wasn’t entirely sure why he put so much emphasis on the we, but for some crazy reason it was important to him. Almost as important as her accepting his invitation.

2

Kennedy

I seriously hoped Jameson couldn’t tell how nervous I was. My hands may’ve been shaking, though since I’d shoved them in my pockets, I couldn’t be sure.

Had I known I was going to run into the man, I wouldn’t have come, or at least I would’ve gone home and changed out of my dirty clothes, maybe washed some of the dirt and dust off me, and run a brush through my hair. But I hadn’t done any of those things because I’d been red hot mad and I’d thought I was coming over to talk to Nixon.

While Nixon was one good-looking man, he wasn’t as hot as Jameson. And, well, he was just Nixon. I’d grown up with him. He was a cute kid when we were in elementary school, but I could still remember him picking his nose. And when we got to middle school and he’d shot up two feet over the summer—okay that was an exaggeration, but he’d had a growth spurt and started to fill out—he’d become even cuter. However, I couldn’t forget the way his voice had cracked, making him sound like a frog for a full six months. In high school, he’d come into his own and there was a presence about him that everyone wanted to be around. But by then, he was just Nixon.

My buddy.

So, I’d appreciated the boy-man he’d become but I’d never looked at him as more than a friend, even on the night I’d almost screwed everything up. A boy I could pal around with and know I was safe to do silly teenage stuff, because Nixon Swagger was a champion for girls. Sure, he’d nailed quite a few of my classmates, but he’d never broken hearts. And when Rich Dillinger had hurt some of my friends, it was Nixon who’d stepped in and helped.

Bottom line was, I had no issue with Nixon seeing me looking like a ragamuffin as my mom would say. I had no interest in Nix and if the rumors were to be believed, and considering I’d seen him in town with McKenna Wilson, he was very much taken and officially off the market.